#monk nsft

[puppygator]

Once again thinking about how underutilized monks are in erotic/nsfw spaces.

Kiss his tonsure. Pull his hood over his head like a blind. Let your hands wander over his thick robes, feel for the soft mound of his cock through it. Listen to his whispered, desperate prayers, trying to keep his mind from your touch. Pull him by his cincture into your grasp, his sharp gasp at the tightness around his waist. Kiss his hands; maybe they are broad and rough from labor, maybe spindle-fingered with select little callouses, the hands of an artist, an illuminator. Let his robes pool around his waist so you can reveal the treasures between his legs; doesn't he look like a bashful bride? Is that not our place as the church, a bride to the Christ surely christ will be willing to share this eager, blushing bride. The lengths of untouched, holy skin, ready and prime for your touch, for your corruption of this holy man, to make him even holier and bring him to an ecstasy unlike any other.

[delicatelymorbid]

wanna fuck myself in front of her while she pathetically rides a dildo and has strict instruction to match my slow pace, or else she gets nothing at all. tying her hands behind her back and gagging her mouth so i don’t have to hear her whine about “needing” to go faster just so she can fuck herself like a slut. my moans mixing with her pretty cries would distract me too, making me ignore her pain for the sake of my pleasure since i can get off from slow fucks and she can’t

[slightly-knot-insane]

Monk's Temptation (part 6)

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[ part 1 ] [ part 2 ] [ part 3-1 ] [ part 3-2 ] [ part 4 ] [ part 5 ]

a/n: God have mercy on Atanas' soul, he will do something utterly unholy. Also, we have some lore about his species! content: nsfw, fingering, spitting?

Did he scare you? Yes, of course he did. Your grandmother - just like any god-fearing woman - told you stories of Karakonjuls when you were little. How fearsome they were a millennium ago, a wild man-eating tribe that tortured medieval humans. And how slowly they calmed down, accepted Christianity, and changed their diet. But still there were… accidents. The transition wasn’t easy. Some horrible events and setbacks demanded new laws and obligations. In some countries, for example, every Karakonjul family, regardless of the number of children they had, was required to give at least one child to serve God, as a way of repaying for their savage past.

You wondered if one of those Karakonjul children sent as a repentance is standing right in front of you, barely breathing as if ready to pounce, emanating intensity and hunger.

So many questions linger on the tip of your tongue. You want to know everything about him. Inward and outward. But should you, is the real question.

“Atanas, do you…” You need to tread this path carefully. “Do you like being a monk?”

Atanas’ eyes turn back to a mellow blonde shade, but they lose their vibrancy and turn to a solemn white. “I…” He takes a long pause. “I like the gardens.”

“The gardens, huh?” You take a step forward, trying to peer into his hood. But aside from two glistening orbs, you can’t even make out the shape of his head. “Why did you want to become a monk?”

His head snaps up. “I didn’t. My parents sent me here.”

So you were right; this wasn’t his choice. He never wanted this life of spirituality and self-sacrifice. You assume nobody asked him what he wanted. Your heart starts racing, as it dawns on you that you are alone with a fearsome Karakonjul, hidden by the pouring rain, wind, and darkness, lulled by the smell of fresh and ripe apples.

“Ani…” You move to touch him, but change your mind. “Can I see your hand?”

His eyes turn to stormy blue as he curls his fingers into a fist and hides them behind his back. “Please don’t. I’m scary.”

You giggle. “I will be the judge of that,” you retort and present your palm. 

Atanas is still reluctant, but there is no escaping your demanding eyes. As if he’s about to be punished, his head hanging low, he places his bony hand into yours. You look at his rough gray skin, speckled with onyx marks, and his long four fingers decorated with sharp black claws. Those hands hunted and killed humans a thousand years ago. And now, barely touching your skin, the hand of this terrifying predator is shaking.

“Ani…” You place your other hand over his. “You are fascinating.”

He gasps. There is some inarticulate sound coming from his hood, but nothing resembling a language comes out. Instead, he squeezes your hand. And the trembling stops. His eyes slowly turn pink, and he looks at you with the same intensity he chased you with.

Your heart is beating in your throat - you and Ani are holding hands. And you are excited about that. What are you, five?

Even though he doesn’t reject you nor accept your flirting, you place his hand on your face. This time, he doesn’t gasp. He just stares at you, like a hawk. He gently cups your cheek. 

“Should I stop?” you ask. 

He shakes his head slowly. You pull his palm across your lips, chin, down your throat, and stop it between your breasts. Are you insane? “Should I stop now?”

He is trembling again, and his claws scratch against your skin. As if he wants to dig them in.

“No…” he whispers. “Please, don’t stop.”

“I should say those words, Ani.” You smile, but the monk just blinks in confusion. It’s too soon, too soon, you reprimand yourself. But you can barely control your thoughts anymore. You are also shaking, your knees slightly buckling. “Ani, I… Do you want to touch me?”

With a sharp rustle of his habit, you are pressed against the rough fabric covering his chest. His other arm is placed against your back, his fingers digging into your soft folds. You are sure he can feel how hot you are, how fast your heart is beating. Does he even have a heart? Does he bleed? Does he have a skeleton? Does he reproduce like humans?

“Yes…” he whispers, but this time he sounds different. As if his voice belongs to another man, another… creature. Does he scare you? Yes, oh yes, so much. And you love it.

Your ache is unbearable. You lift your skirt up to your breasts and lead Atanas’ hand against your soft belly, pressing his palm against your navel. His eyes pulsate in that vibrant magenta colour, and, with a moist breath, heating the air between you, he starts purring. The vibrations spread throughout his body, right to the tips of his fingers brushing against your bush. You wonder does he know how much you desire him. Is he aware of the state your body is in, the edge you are standing on? 

“Touch me, Ani…” you bite your lip, staring into the void. 

Atanas growls, and his fingers slide into your panties. You moan, letting go of his wrist completely to grab his habit. He pulls you even closer, oh-so-closer, and the odor of cheap detergent and incense trapped in the fabric fill your nostrils. You don’t want that smell now. You want to smell him, only him, but you can’t. It’s not important. Not right now, in any case.

Atanas purrs above your head, as his fingers touch your cunt, your folds, your curls as delicately as petals.

“Ani…” You place your skirt higher and spread your legs more. “Harder. Please, harder… That little bud… higher…”

His fingers seem fascinated with how wet you are, constantly rubbing your entrance, gently probing. But you don’t have enough time for that. You need a release now. “Ani… there, right there… press it and… left and right…”

You are mumbling into his habit, hiding your face to silence your moans. Atanas is next to your ear, panting in an almost beastly way, and that drives you crazy. He is painfully inexperienced, but he understands your instructions. Barely. It is too much, not enough, too rough, too gentle, too slow, too fast, all at once; but it is Ani and those are his fingers getting you off. 

“Yes… yes… yes…” He hears your whimpers and holds you tighter, grabbing you by the ass and lifting you. He does something between your legs, his fingers shift in a strange way, but whatever he does, it pushes you right over the edge. You scream against his chest, and Atanas duets with a snarl. 

You are giggling and panting after the strong wave of your orgasm, but Ani lifts your head, forcing you to look up, into his face, into flaming red irises. He pushes his thumb into your mouth and opens it. You are panting, shaking from your climax, but a new sensation overpowers that delight - dismay.

For the first time, something else appears in the face void. A shape forms underneath his eyes. Something is glistening, moving, twisting. But you can’t quite make it. Hot air washes over your face, and a long, thick thread of spit drips right onto your tongue, sliding down your throat.

The orbs flicker, suddenly changing into pale blue ones. The purring and snarling stop in a heartbeat. You blink, and Ani releases you with a nervous gasp.

He looks at his hands as if he sees them for the first time, glances at you again, and runs outside. 

“Ani!” you yell after him. What have you done? You fall to your knees. Fuck. What just happened? You swallow, feeling the strange liquid glide like a warm chocolate down your throat. And what has he done to you?

🙘⠀✟⠀🙚

Taglist: @blushycadaver @just-kattt @kittycatkandies @sunndust @guess--monster @rs-hawk @frosch-thefrog @frightfr @faithisthedoctor @sleeplessskeleton @misspendragonsworld @concubus-cuddles @lexariahane @cutiebimbo @aesthetic-dummy [ please let me know if you want on/off ]

[bearselfshipnaughties]

I need that monk tied up and shaking and teary-eyed with drool down his chin and his chest covered with love bites on it.

[jellisdraws]

☀️Beach Bum 🌊

Frisk belongs by the water

[quitealotofsodapop]

Was Tripitaka scared the first time he saw his own crotch? Because cats have quills.

Another reason why he would be terrified of breeding with another feline.

Sorry this made me laugh thinking about Tripitaka going to take a whizz first time after being transformed into a tiger demon; looking down and just screaming. XD

Cus while animal demons can have characteristics of humans, there's somethings that stay the same.

Cats can have their tucked in unless in use, so Tripitaka didn't notice for a while.

The Pilgrims came running over to see why he was screaming, only for their poor master to yell;

"WHY BARBS!?!"

They try their best to stiffle their laughter. Especially when Wukong carefully gives Tripitaka the feline "birds and the bees" (or as he says in one jttw chapter "hens and roosters").

Tripitaka is Horrified.

And still the female demons approach him!?!

Gotta convince this monk not to waste his glamour magic on his junk. He accidentally turns himself afab a few times doing so and is only slightly more comfortable that way.

[mythrae]

what is ur tav's class && how does it affect their sexual life ?? For whoever !! <3

maybe it’s bc I myself wasn’t sexually active for a very long time but long story short the girlies were not freaking it that much

original question list: https://www.tumblr.com/mythrae/735380678507692032?source=share

(under cut bc slight nsft)

Taversia:

She is a fighter who spent nearly a decade as a member of the Flaming Fists of Baldur’s Gate. Despite the Fists being a sausage fest, she never felt it was appropriate to mix business with pleasure and never let anyone pursue her. On top of that, she was worried that since she was born intersex, that the men she would romance would have a negative reaction and potentially harm her.

This carries over in-game, at first refusing to accept anyone’s sexual/romantic advances, trying her best to stay professional with her party members. She only lets her guard down and allows herself to get freaky once she gets into a developed relationship with Gale.

Divya:

As a monk, her code restricted her to strict celibacy. I don’t want to think she was very sexual before becoming one either (since she became a monk in Ilmater’s Church when she was 16), but she keeps her virginity throughout her time as a monk, despite the temptations that may have arisen in her.

Once she joins the party, she also doesn’t want to get frisky with her party members right away. Even as her relationship develops with Wyll, she (for the most part) keeps her code of celibacy, which he is more than happy to let her uphold. Who is he to judge?

Stassie:

Being an up-and-coming bard in the city, I can definitely imagine her having a few one night stands with suitable bachelors. But she never really wanted to settle down and have just one partner, even if they did.

She’s tempted to get it on as soon as possible with her party members, but reserves herself so she doesn’t seem like the flirt of the group (that position is in a tie between Wyll and Astarion). Her becoming a warlock does increase her sex drive a bit, because she will need a lot of stress relief while dealing with her patron 🥴

[indizien-a]

@urobouris​ said,  Oh god Ray, I can feel you doing it around my cock. I can feel you ― that’s it, baby. Fuck yourself on me. ――   nsft sentence starters,   selectively accepting.

          𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅-𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄   might be justified in majority of the situations that Raymond Reddington finds himself in,   it tastes particularly tempting when it is the result of a well-earned TRIUMPH.   Chess has always been their little secret, eyes meeting and outmanoeuvring each other’s strategy ――   it’s the same game still,   after all these years of juvenile toying.   Albert still has him wrapped around his little finger,   with his back against the wall and mind caught between rational resolution and complete sexual DESPERATION.   But this time around, he’s won.   And Albert knows him, knows just how much of a sore winner he is.   Grin tugs on the corners of a mouth as fingertips drag across the satin of a blindfold,   down to lewd lips.   He can feel him try to thrust upward,   mirroring his own URGENCY ――   but he likes to tease.   Pace shifts from slow movement of his hips,   gradually taking him in savouring the arousing pain of feeling Albert stretch him out,  to thrusting himself down onto his mentor’s length that it chokes all AIR out of his lungs and almost tempts him to touch himself.   But he doesn’t.   Even here, with his hands pinning his mentor’s down,   low moans vibrating against Albert’s pulse as mouth drags over a jaw,   and Raymond in this terrific position of complete and absolute POWER over his partner’s gratification,   he still waits for permission.

          Hand finds the young virologists neck,   the caress of fingertips a stark contrast of the way that muscles ripple under his skin every time he grinds down on Albert’s cock.   He feels himself throbbing,   DESPERATE for friction every time he bends down to drag his tongue across the bottom of the older male’s lip.     “ Is that so? ―― ”     A cocky remark and breathless all the same,   hips jerking forward a little more HARSHLY to make a point.     “ Good. ――――  I want you to fill me ――   all night…   until I’m raw and begging you to cum… ”

[sashi-ya]

五 𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗦𝗘𝗦 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧: 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐒𝐢𝐧 [+18] 𝚉𝚘𝚛𝚘-𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚘 𝚡 𝙵! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

✦ request: anonymous asked: Hi Sashi-ya! congrats on 5500! can I request Zoro x f! reader. prop: touch me, make me shiver? thank you! ➜ of course my love!! it's a little bit long but it's good I promise 😈🙊 ✦ tw: NSFT. alcohol usage. oral sex. dom! zoro. vag sex. creampie. Wano AU, Zoro is a ronin. ✦ masterlist

Ah… Zoro-juro, known as a ronin who can kill with the sharp edges of his three swords and also to make any man to kneel before his demonic aura. Some call him the King of Hell; Enma himself. Some say he is just a human, some others that he isn’t quite one.

On that bar of the Flower Capital, people get drunk and party until late hours. There are shamisen playing cheerful songs, couples flirting and other’s not so much. And there is also a spot reserved for him; the demonic ronin.

Several women had tried to flirt with him; and yet he has never caved in. Is not that he is married to a person, he is married to the sword. He is not interest in anything besides the rules of Bushido. What you could consider a monk, but for the blade.

But, there was someone who didn’t know the rules yet… you. You didn’t want to flirt with him, you only wanted that sword that could cost millions, if not thousands of them. Your stomach growls when you take a look from the dark at the three katanas the ronin had left on top of the countertop. And the way that green haired swordsman has passed with who knows how much alcohol filling his veins.

“Calm down, stomach. You will be soon filled with delicious soba once I sell one of those” you murmur to yourself, as you crawl like a snake towards them.

Used to stealing, you move fast and silently. Your fingertips graze three powerful instruments; they smell like blood and you could swear they are breathing as well. One, is untouchable. The other, feels like if you keep touching it will drain the life out of you… then, the third one. That should do… “Isn’t this a wazamono? Sandai Kitetsu?!”

You pick the most silent one of them three. It’s heavy, but you don’t mind. It’s time to run outside and disappear into the night. A kunoichi knows how to fade with the darkness.

You get outside the bar, the cold breeze of Wano kuni hits your cheeks. You scoff… “What a stupid ronin, falling asleep and leaving his precious treasures without supervision… he isn’t as demonic as they say he is, after all”

Your hands move to cast the ninjutsu technique, but you aren’t allowed to finish. The sharp object that is now stopping you menaces with taking your life if you dare to move a single muscle.

“Am I… a stupid ronin?” he asks, with raspy voice from behind. The smell of stell, blood and alcohol gets to your nose. His aura is so powerful it makes you dizzy, weak. You can even feel the katana in your hand aching to go back to his owner.

You swallow. He is undeniable bigger, stronger, powerful than you. And you, probably, are about to become another one of his victims…

“Can you give me back my katana, please?” he asks, and even if it was a question it sounded more like a direct order.

“Yeh- yeah. I’m-“ you stutter, moving slowly your hand back to give his sword back. You can feel on your wrist how big his thigh is compared to your arm and the subtle touch against his skin makes you tremble. You did not only think he was stupid while sleeping, but also, how extremely handsome he was.

He takes it back. Tucking it on the blue sash around his muscular waist. You, still, can’t move. The blade of a white sword still menaces with beheading you.

“I gave it back, sir. Can I go now?” you ask, trying to sound fearless and polite. But secretly, your hand tries to reach the kunai on your pants.

But that man scoffs. And it makes a shiver run through your spine… why isn’t he killing you already?

“Searching for that weapon? What were you think of doing? Stabbing my leg?” he asks, turning you around to face him.

The edge of his sword is now resting on your nape, and you are as close as you can possibly be to his prominent chest. It is, for sure, a good view to indulge in before dying…

“You are too beautiful to be doing this. You don’t know who I am?” he asks, confused and yet inspecting your moonlight bathed features.

“I might be beautiful, but I am hungry” you whisper, looking down, scaping from his steel single eye looking into yours.

Zorojuro puts down his sword and sheathes it back into his waistband. “Com’ere” he orders, snatching your arm and pulling you to follow him.

You struggle to do so, but you keep up with his pace. You may run away from him, but you know he will not let you scape… so, why bother?

The crunch of the dry leaves underneath your gettas, and the lights of the red district disappearing behind you announces the beginning of a more calmed and rural zone of Wano. The silver moonlight filters in between tall trees; it creates beautiful patterns of shadows and brilliance on the ground.

You don’t dare to ask where you are going. He isn’t telling you either. But after a good 20 minutes walk -and passing right next to the same tree at least three times- the silhouette of an old cabin appears in front of you.

He pulls you to the entrance, opening a creaking door that leads you inside of a very humble home.

“Sit there, the shitty cook left some soba” he says. And you understand he was taking you there just to feed you… after all, he wasn’t that demonic.

You try to tell him no… but your stomach growls so loud that you can’t even say anything and so you obey. There isn’t much around, but it is enough. It is better than your home, after all.

The ronin puts a plate of soup and noodles in front of you. The little table also creaks, but it looks just fine. “Here. Eat” he says, pointing at the bowl with the biggest hand you’ve ever seen on a man.

You look up at him, there aren’t words to express how grateful you are for his kindness. You tried to steal from him, while he is helping you.

“Go on. It will get cold. That stupid cook will be pissed at me if a woman like you doesn’t eat his food properly” he says, turning around. He walks towards a little shelf, where a few bottles of sake rest.

You nod, joining your palms to thank for the meal and start digging it. You don’t want to look desperate… but when was the last time you ate something hot, and so delicious? You aren’t sure if that’s ever happened in your life.

Zorojuro pulls the cork out of the bottle with his teeth, showing you the way his neck muscles work when doing so. His sharp mandible, as delicious as the plate you are eating. He takes the bottle to his lips and begin to chug its contents. Why is this man so stupidly attractive?

It isn’t helping the fact that he lets his upper yukata part fall down. His wide back, scarless and huge show its caramel skin to you.

You get lost on the lustful image of a demon god getting once again drunk before your eyes. But as soon as he turns around and cleans the drops of alcohol on the commissure of his lips he laughs at you.

“You remind me of my best friend Luffy!” he scoffs, coming closer to your dumbfounded you that has now lost herself on the crossing scar of his neck.

He kneels in front of you, cleaning with his calloused thumb the little noodle on the commissure of your lips. “This should go inside… nothing should be wasted” he murmurs, taking the noodle and eating it.

You sigh. There is so much pressure inside you, that you really need air.

However, Zorojuro seems absolutely unaware of the effect he has on you and so, he stands up and flops into his futon. Like the King of Hell, he sits with his legs spread, his right arm resting on his knee and the left one taking the bottle to his lips. He isn’t delicate, he drinks that alcoholic elixir with no manners, brutally, like a beast.

Kneeling on the floor with your plate already empty, you look at him in silence. Is he waiting for you to go away? Does he want something in return? He is a man, right? He surely wants you to… repay with… sex.

You, however, have no inconveniences into complying if that’s your part of the deal and so after gaining the courage you stand up. He doesn’t seem to bother as he keeps chugging sake like a sponge, and yet looking so primally attractive.

“Zoro-juro…” you say, standing right in front of him. You try by all means not to show him how your voice gets trembly. You aren’t scared, you are horny. You are desperate, as if there was an invisible force of perversion pulling you towards that man… a sinful impulse Enma itself would applaud.

“Hah? You want sake? Aren’t you a little bit demanding, woman?” he asks; of course, he is not giving you his precious liquid. But you don’t want that…

You untie your upper part, letting it fall to the ground, exposing your breasts to him. “Zoro-juro, touch me… make me shiver” you purr, hoping that your body is to his liking.

He chokes with the wine, opening his healthy eye widely. “What- woman, what the fuck? You-“

“I have no money to repay you for your attention; hope this is enough” you tell him, kneeling right in front of him as if he was some kind of God you are submitting to.

The green haired man leaves the bottle on the ground and sits properly. “I don’t want anything in return. You were hungry, and so I fed you” he says, yet, his voice feels a little trembly now. Is it, perhaps, that this samurai is getting interested in your body?

“Use my body, sir” you moan. “You really want me to? aren’t you a little bit straightforward?” he asks, amazed.

Lifting your gaze to him, giving him a look of pure lust and desire, you answer his question. And you let that man speechless.

A smirk, so deliciously sexy, appears on his lips. The intense aura around him makes you short of breath, knowing exactly how difficult it will be for you to walk tomorrow morning.

“Very well, then. Come here… crawling” he grunts, taking his arms behind his neck and flopping back to his futon against the wooden wall. “Enjoy desert”

You reach for his body, crawling on all fours. Playful hands, avid for discovering more of his anatomy, untie the sash that holds his yukata closed. It’s exceptionally delicious, not only the perfect sculpted muscles of his lower stomach, but also the natural scent of his skin. He might not have bathed today, but somehow it makes you so attracted to his flesh.

Bending forward, you plant the first kiss over his right hipbone. It makes him grunt. You plant another one, this time closer to his belly button. Another grunt in response, so sensitive his muscles spasm.

And he might meditate and take things slow, but not this… Zoro passes his huge hand through your hair, pulling from it to make you look up at him.

“Show me what those lips can do, woman. Com’ere” he says, helping you crawl on his lap. You sit there, feeling his hardness already hitting against your core. You can tell he is not average… of course he isn’t.

His lips approach yours so slowly, killing you softly with the wait. You smell the sake, and soon you taste it too when his tongue encounters yours. Zorojuro goes slow at first, so deliciously and sinful, with his huge hands pressing you by your hips against him.

You moan into his mouth, allowing him to breathe your desperate sinful melody. He smirks with his lips still pressed into yours, and with his hand he reaches for the bottle next to him.

“Stick your tongue out”  he commands, and you do. The bittersweet liquid pouring into your mouth overflows and drips from the sides of your mouth. And he doesn’t let a single drop go to waste, as he licks the alcohol right from your skin.

He hums; he is pleased to discover sake could taste even better from your skin that the bottle. And he does, he empties the rest of the bottle all over your body. It wets your pants, and it’s ok… they were pretty much wet already. It pools in your belly button. It bathes your nipples. And there is nothing that Zoro is more addicted to than sake itself.

Like a beast; like a demon, he starts licking up and down. Sucking, devouring. He bites and pulls from your nipples as if he were to obtain more alcohol coming from them. You can only whine, letting this man taste every single corner of your flesh.

“Ugh… woman. You are delicious” he growls, turning around, putting you against the mattress beneath you two. He pins your hands up your head against the futon. Just one of his huge hands is enough to grab both your wrists.

Zoro gives you those deathly smirks; those deadly smiles of his. Get. Ready. To. Die… by the hands of the King of Hell.

Your pants get pretty much ripped. No need to take them out. Sex exposed, so juicy and tempting. Like the soba plate you devoured, is your cunt the one to get eaten.

That strong ronin lifts your legs up, letting them fall over his shoulders. He kneels, so that your body gets lifted up just enough for him to be comfortable, as he gets ready to taste your honeys. And he attacks almost immediately, with a wandering tongue that gets in between your labia reaching for your clit. He also presses down your belly; you aren’t sure how expert he is, but you are sure that if he keeps going that way you are going to come almost instantly.

The sounds of his tongue traveling up and down your core makes you shiver, the way he touches and desperately wants to drink more of you, too. Zoro licks up and down, around, and inside. From your rear entrance to your clit, and vice versa too.

Moaning, shivering, contorting, arching your back, loosing humanity you mewl like a mere animal enslaved of pleasure. Climax, spasms and his scoffing. Zoro is enjoying your reactions so delighted. But he is not over, you aren’t either.

The samurai lets you rest for a couple of seconds on the futon. In between your blurry vision, you can see how he totally undresses himself. The fabrics covering his pelvis finally fall to the ground, as he walks up to his holly shelf of alcohol provisions.

You watch him take a drink of a new bottle, leaving it aside for after as he comes to you again. “That damn cook, look what you made me do… you and your delicious food” he murmurs, almost laughing.

You wonder who that cook is, but, if he is the one that cooked that soba you are more than grateful for it. However, you are even more grateful for Zoro’s parents, how much they loved each other to create such a beautiful being.

You bite your lips, as you watch him approach you he throws his shoulders back. He is definitely getting ready to fuck you, and you want it so badly.

“I think I wanna fuck you from the side, woman” he says, grabbing you from your ankle to turn you to your side in a swift, violent motion.

You giggle as he does so, still a little dizzy from your past orgasm. And he does too, yet, his dark tone only announces you that you are about to stop laughing…

Zoro flops right behind you, also lying on his side and lifting your leg up. He comes closer, hitting his chest with your back, passing his hand underneath your neck and grabbing it after.

“You want me to fuck you, hm?” he whispers in your ear, passing his free palm from your hips to your waist and from there down your belly. It makes you shiver, his presence, his touch, his voice, how big and hard he is.

The green haired samurai bites your shoulder, making you squeak in pain. And in pleasure too. His hardness searches for your entrance by itself, but he doesn’t penetrate you quite yet. He enjoys the way your juices mix with his, how you wet his tip getting it so perfectly lubricated to finally abuse your entrance.

“Zo- zoro… please” you beg, you wanna feel him deep inside you. He squeezes your neck as you plead, cutting your airflow for some minutes.

“You want my dick inside you? Is that what you want?” he asks, barely letting his tip slide a few cm inside your entrance.

“Pl- please…yes, yes” you whine, resting your nape against his chest. Inhaling the scent of his skin, the manly perfume of testosterone. Getting so drunk with it, with passion, lust and low instincts.  “My king, my king of hell… fuck me, please”

Zoro grunts, and with a violent thrust he finally deeply penetrates you. You whine, loud. You moan, even louder. It feels as if your insides were breaking in half, the way he fucks you so raw and rough.

You become a dumb piece of flesh and pleasure, drooling against the white fluffy surface of the bed, as he goes in and out so violently. His hips are the best punish for stealing you could have ever received.

He keeps going, almost as if his stamina was endless. Zoro moves you, from the side up his hips. You end up in reverse but is not you who should move; you couldn’t either. His hips buck up, your back pressed against his chest, your arms hanging from the sides, your legs too. The samurai fucks you as if you were weightless, as if your body had become inert to him.

You rest the back of your head on his big chest, taking a look to the back and side in total misery, climaxing for the third time perhaps. You can see how much of a demonic expression he has, showing he indeed has earned such rename because of a tangible cause… Zoro looks like the devil himself, an extremely hot demon.

“Take my cum, sweet woman” he growls, with little to no warning filling your womb with his warm seed. Your eyes go blank as you can totally feel the pressure inside, bathing your clenching milking walls… a blessing from the owner of Jigoku himself… a reminder of your past actions, convincing yourself that stealing Sandai Kitetsu had been one of the best decisions you have ever made…

They say that stealing is a sin, and when you sin you are sent to suffer.   And you are glad you did, because you have just met, the King of Hell…

[nonhoration]

Every ao often I realize that you & me travel in Very different roads on here and one of those times was reading "when everyone was reblogging that sneeze fetish poat" xD

You DEFINITELY saw it too lol, accounts who would execute you for talking about nsft stuff were reblogging it. It was an excerpt from a book involving medieval monks banning sneezing or something.

[dansedan]

I threatened on the Disco Writer’s Nook server to share my notes from this latest fic, but since they’re wildly incomprehensible and kind of silly I thought maybe I’ll just... chuck ‘em on here instead, under a readmore where they can pass by easier so uhhh xX WeLcOmE To My TwIsTeD mInDXx !!!1!!

(warning for LONG LONG post- I write full sections and asides from the universe that aren’t even in the damn fic within the same notes document a lot... I’m also insufferably pretentious on notes I KNOW and I cull it on the final as much as I can, as well as mild possible spoilers for a fic I haven’t written in the same au-timeline-thing I suppose and NSFT stuff)

(also a lot of this gets discarded because it’s so stupid and I write it at terrible brain moments)

"Por la mañana me di a la estúpida tarea de esconder mis cigarros por los rincones de la casa. Los encuentro, claro, pero fumo poco, fumo menos, hago esfuerzos por mejorarme de una vez."

meditative cigarettes and quitting fic.

Harry smokes less than he drinks, because he smokes to keep sharp and he usually wants to be numb, down to zero, space-based. but after going tee-total and opening up on his quest to actual-human-persondom he finds himself chainsmoking constantly. A concern in his volition is raised, a thought project ruminated on, and strategems laid out.

Harry grasps at the first half at a low point in his attempts to get better without anyone knowing or helping. He wonders about Kim's life, Kim's control. The electrochemistry in him fantasizes about a free-wheeling party-boy sort of Kim, still cool, still quiet, but free and soft and in control of his lack of control- the aviator, the flying ace, at the mercy of the elements and gliding by by choice- lands on the question of the one-per day, the Kim he knows, who takes what he needs with trepidation and preparation.

The truth is that last one- Kim was a social smoker, an after-dinner-if-the-date-is-pleasant smoker, an after-sex smoker, a bumming-cigarettes-to-gague-his-interest smoker (it all started with a boyfriend) but police work and his neverending stint in Juvie drove him to once-per-day, a creature of obsession. He used to heavily resent it- until Harry came along and joined the ritual.

"bebiendo mate con el ademán gracioso de los novatos. Es lo que hago ahora cuando siento ganas de fumar, dijo, con una sonrisa."

Kim and Harry not so close together- the idea of Kim and Harry not knowing everything about each other, because that's just not how you survive, but somehow Kim aching to be up-to-date on Harry all the time.

Harry and his funny little excursions around town. Kim visits and finds cigarettes hidden around the house, smells them in fear of finding drugs, or Harry has to awkwardly shuffle around for one when Kim invites him to smoke. Harry tries to join a book club, starts cooking lofty meals for his yoga class, tries being vegan for a week, checks out a bunch of books on the history of the Coupris Corp (SUZERAINTY ERA MARK OF AUTHENTICITY BABEY) as a way to help him wean off substances but also off Kim. They want each other but they know they need to stand on their own </3

Harry starts going to this novelty/gourmet supermarket and buying one new thing every paycheck like furikake that says it has lead on it and mate and all that. He spends his ex-drinking, smoking money on it.

Harry makes Kim huevos rotos :'-)

You're barely holding it together- how the hell did you get to this newsstand? Is it a newsstand? This structure- round, metal, iron-wrought frame and squat stature- was once a newsstand. How do you know it isn't? What is it now? You feel yourself point someplace on a menu you can't see past the dew of heavy crying- the clerk does not react, he's seen you like this- slam your wallet on the counter. You receive a paper parcel slightly larger than your fist, long. It's warm through the paper, and you can feel the dryness of a light dusting of flour passing through it. Food.

Your legs and arms are moving on their own again, wallet shoved this way, steps stumbled past the other, clumsily bringing whatever it is to your mouth and feeling crumbs fall into your beard- like a shark. That's one of the first things you remember, the beautiful old ultraliberal woman, like a shark, on her boat. The joy of your first- no, second- idiom. The first was up on Marvel Hill where you can't live. Kim said that. Kim's gonna be there, when you do it like a shark and don't stop any of this on your way to work and you stop crying so nobody thinks you did what you're avoiding doing. Is there anyway you can forget the frittte? There's so many locations in your mind, what kind of man are you, remembering the placement of a store that's meant to vanish and appear out of convenience like it's a fucking pitstop (would a flask not be enough? A single habit to get rid of, easy- but you're never easy).

You feel dark-dark-light-darkness and then light again, and smoother flooring and your coat being too warm. You're at the precinct- fuck, you're at the precinct- and it's late, real late, but you are here and there's too many people to fuck up here and at least you aren't crying. Your red face and eyes blend perfectly into too many years and days of red and puffy eyes to call attention. Perfect, perfect- god bless the innocence (or is innocence god? You can't forget- Remember- something.)

"You're late, shitkid." At some point Jean appears beside you. He's walked the other way and stopped- he's grimacing- but more importantly you see his left arm raise and still and clench itself, like a restricted movement, natural instinct. "You smell like shit- is that fish?" You do not know if that is fish because your throat hurts so bad already that you cannot know if you've been swallowing bones for this past hour (minute? Minutes? The walk feels like forever and never enough. You're swearing like a pig now that you're standing, how adequate.) 

You want to say it's agony, the end of days, the end of you- you want to say reprise, and sorry, and oh god I didn't want to see you please I don't deserve it Jean please leave and go away from me and also please oh god please hold me up I don't know what I'm doing but I'm trying to be better but I ate this thing that might as well be sawdust and I do not know what time it's been for several days.

Instead you say "it's my GOD-GIVEN RIGHT, VIC" and you move along like a fucking idiot.

"An image arises in your mind's eye-- a baby, dirty, hideous, its skin mottled and raw and red, peeling, stretching almost impossibly. The baby cries from pain- in it's brief stay on this earth it has already suffered more than some men do in their entire lives. He is built for it- thick skin, quite literally. He is being held by a slight, pale, ugly nurse- a nun in bloodied white rags with a terrible smell of herbs permanently attached to her. The scene is a caricature of mother and child- the hideous thing, held up to her chest, is drinking from an amber bottle, clouded over. In ten years, the contents of this bottle he will be legally too young for-- is this the reason you became the way you are? Are you just born-and-bred this way, surviving off of alcohol where most people had blood and human kindness?

-- It's not. The little pastiche you've thought up for yourself is half propaganda and half racist idiocy. Despite what the supposed "race-realists" may say, not everyone from the Insulindian is thrown on the bottle the moment they're weaned from the tit. In truth, you were barely even medicated, and those bitter, herbaceous spirits are not the cause of your current addiction. It's still on you harry, it's always still on you.

"Wake up- time to listen to the radio.

You love the radio. You really, really love the radio. You think the radio was the greatest purchase you have ever made- drunk you was horrible, and traumatizing, and entirely undebatably subhuman, but he did buy this radio, and by god fuck if that isn't his saving grace (a story comes to mind- a Dolorean allegory from your childhood- about a selfish rich woman and a lazy cheating bum both ferried up to heaven by a single onion that she'd given him during their lives as charity. You choose to ignore the part where they fight and fall back into hellfire). It's the thing that broke you off from your mazovian monk-like refusal to buy anything for yourself other than flour for a week after THE HANGED MAN, it's what got you into cycling and hanging out with the neon eyebleed catsuits crew, it's what reminded you that public libraries exist and nobody will ask you why you're in there reading about suzerainty-era motor carriage manufacturing and the homo-sexual underground. It's the greatest thing since communism, since disco, since-- since-- since cigarettes and kebabs and- and--

... And idolizing someone to the point of crucifixion. Which you aren't supposed to be doing.

Good thing the radio cranks up real loud! 

"You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography, even, notably, the single romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice,  meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what books were, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years).

"Harry's apartment is no longer clean, but not as dirty as before, and its stalwart light-green walls seem, in the summer light, less queasy and foreboding than what they are now, almost dainty in the contrast of the sparse few frames and piles of knickknacks on the floor. 

Believe it or not, this is good-- sometimes, life with Harry makes you feel like a zoologist, intricately analysing an animal's pile of leaves and refuse and knowing, despite all human standards, what these habits mean for the foreign species. And for Harry, mess like this is good. It means he's kept busy by any one of his million little projects,  picked up and put down at a dizzying speed and constancy, each one increasingly out of left field in

Kim and harry talk about the radio, kim thinks about it "radio, what's new? Radio- some-one still loves you"

Harry talking abt agenda + library bc you can't smoke + planning for dinner with Kim :-)

Gotta go to the library so you don't chainsmoke

Gotta shower to go to the library 

Don't wanna shower bc executive dysfunction

Grab a smoke before you shower 

Oh wait you've been chain-smoking fuck (insert meditation on sharp vs smooth)

Hide all your cigarettes around the house feeling pathetic about it

You still don't feel like showering

But you just chainsmoked and you know you'll do it again because you JUST hid your smokes and the hiding spots are fresh in your mind

Birdbath (why are you so fucking dysfunctional that you can't shower like a normal adult) 

Introspective rubber ducky selfhate momence

Rubber ducky encourages you through the power of nihilism and Kim

Thought project gain

Go to library and need comfort so you're going thru all your usual shelves (insert le funny homo shelf joke here) 

What does he read about? Smoking? Idk

Kiiiiiim. Kimmy kim kim. Think about Kim

Maybe he reads recipe books to woo kim

        INSERT EXISTENTIAL BROTH EPISODE HERE to talk about how you've never actually seen Kim cook (he told you it was good soup, clearly lying, you told him it was broth, and that you could teach him how to make soup out of it if he wanted...)

(broth episode was another note, inserted here: 

ANOTHER harry coping fic. Miserable housebound weekend nights because he can't party but the house is horrible to be in and he keeps dunking his hands into more and more ice water and taking like half-body cold showers and he's like "maybe this is bad for my skin!!! I gotta get out holy shit" and he's like uhhhh fucking. Can't go to work. Let's go to the supermarket. And then he's almost there and he's like OH FUCK NO THERES ALCOHOL AT THE SUPERMARKET and he straight up bolts out of there and muscle memory gets him to a shady ass butcher shop in some random immigrant neighborhood and he buys so much fish because of a failed check and he goes home and basically he makes so much fish stock. He makes just so fucking much fish stock and Kim comes to pick him up the next day and panics because it genuinely smells like the dead in there but it's just harry making fucking. fish broth or something. Just harry coming up to the door in his work clothes with way too much cologne on and a thermos of fish soup like "uh... Do you want some Broth kim?" And Kim can't fucking cook but he takes some Broth anyway and he's trying to figure out why harry would do that but harry is being a little edgy about it and Kim is like oh god I need to help him a little and they have a sit down about it and he's like wanting to say "hey if you need somewhere to go I'm here for you" but it's hard and I don't even know if he ends up actually saying it. Okay bye)

Talking about the sexiness of supermarkets and how they make reptile brain go brrr

Think about alcohol vs smoking. Think about kimmy kim kim (insert european drinking joke here)

Have that get stuck in his head. Kim kimmy kim kimmy kimmy kim kim. Kimster. Kimbo. Kitsy. Kitty. Cutie. Oh god no fuck oh god I need to stop.

He goes home and still rlly wants to smonk

You hide the cigarettes around the house. It feels stupid, and you know you’ll be embarrassed having to pull the Jamrock Shuffle in your own apartment, that you’re a grown adult who could just *buy another box of cigarettes* whenever you wanted to, but you feel like it helps. Drag the killing thing away from the crappy little animal even for a couple moments more, let yourself get tired out like the old man you are below all the disco scaffolding. You can’t really bring yourself to shower, but you drag the radio into the bathroom with you and wash yourself in the sink. You try to be good about it- stay away from the mirror, really lather up and clear away the sweat that’s caked to you throughout the night and morning, feel the warm graze of the water on your skin. You brush shampoo through your hair and work it in in cycles, focus on the humming feeling of the bristles on your scalp, trying not to think of much of anything, just the smell of the cheap powdery soap and of what clothes you’ll wear today, try to settle into a better memory of this instead of picking at the shame you feel about how hard it is for you. ducking your head into the stream of the water in the sink and forgetting everything except the whishing, scratching sounds of cleaning.

Being clean feels good, and being dressed again feels maybe even better (knit sweaters are a revelation- who could’ve known polyester satin wasn’t made for seaside winters), so by the time you walk your way into the Jamrock public library the morning’s incidents are nigh-forgotten. The dry warmth of the old library is a reliable balm- the yellowed fluorescent lighting washing out the rows and rows of slate-grey plastic bookshelves lined up like soldiers over prerevolutionary tile, with its woven edges and dark, jeweled pinwheels of color, stretching out endlessly full of books, reels, and the rare intricate portrait hanging overhead. Before them, long wooden tables dotted with mismatched lamps, flickering in and out of use, occupied by antsy juveniles and sleeping hobos. It feels effortlessly like home, like a shared worldly past that welcomes everybody- and maybe that just means that it's generic and a little overdue for renovations, but you love it as it is.

Shuffling through the tall shelves of books, you weave through mindlessly to find your favorite sections- the history (both common and infra-cultural, with a surprisingly competent collection of industrial works and a predictably miserablly little shelf of homo-sexual underground interest), the art, and the meager offerings of political literature. You can hear your off-tune humming echo back to you somewhat feebly off the high, painted ceiling, done up in some lame facsimile of early Dolorian excess (therriers, noblewomen, forget-me-nots crowding the edges of each filligreed panel, dead-eyed faces in doleful expressions, pale and empty smiling). You've got all of daylight ahead of you, which is more than enough time to browse around as usual before you have to get yourself home and start cooking.

You turn the corner smoothly into the very back of the library, into a wider set of dusty and anachronistic wooden bookshelves-- history trends unpopular, considering the fact that all the books within are horrifyngly outdated due to a miserable municipal budget, maybe that's for the best. There are better places for students to get this information now, like the private library a couple blocks away at the Cycle Universitee, or from library dial-stations tuned in from the south, where the Bibliotheque Nacionelle Des Travailleures is run by Coalition-approved volunteers. The first thing to catch your eye is the pillar of works of infra-cultural expression and documentstion- essays and short stories from New authors, studies and zines on Disco, and of course, the particular political darling of the 20s, the homo-sexual underground.

You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography- even, notably, the single commercial romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice,  meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what the world was, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years). You shudder, now, at the sight of its cracked spine looking you from the middle sill. Its gaze feels hefty and judgemental, and you do not like it.

There are  

KIM CHAPTAAAA

"you'd like him to take care of himself. You'd like to be there to do it for him when he can't"

"He opens the door, and immediately there are a million little things that test you (hell, with that thick-knit sweater he's wearing, any weakness in you would have him writhing on the floor in seconds). The half-up style of his now-so soft looking auburn hair, split across to reveal the pale white of his nape between the raised collar of his sweater, the kind wrinkling of his open smile upon seeing you walk in, the light, jazzy music of the radio backing his belly-deep laugh and the heady smell of incense in the room are all exhilaratingly Harry to you.

What to do with jean:Standalone fic for him?

Starts when he sees Harry with the eyebleed crew and he's the one who goes up to him like "WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING SHIT KID" and harry is like. Oh god oh fuck jean uh let's be... Cordial! Optimistic! (What jean sees is one of his signature pauses but like. Yeah it's the skills talking) and he's just like "oh it helps me stay sober and make friends, I found out about it on the radio🙂" and Jean is like holy fucking shit this is absolutely insane.

            1) bc Harry used to be so repressed he was basically homophobic with his macho act

            2)bc Jean originally didn't believe the amnesia thing but then when Harry genuinely did shit like this and never told him (which, if it was a cruel joke he would've tried to make it very public and obvious and drag jean into it to embarrass him)

            3) because JEAN was his friend and why the fuck does he just. Run off with random people with a radio ad instead

            4) because he's doing so well. He's like, fully at the sort of "this-side-of-pudgy" bear level that's hot enough to get him positive attention over the damage of the alcohol and he's wearing the sort of clothes that show it and he's got all these crew buddies where Jean is stuck with his hellish depression workouts where he sometimes works until he pukes and then feels like shit about self-harming like that. (what he doesn't know is that Harry is basically doing that same exact shit just he's using his swag alcoholic skills to lieeeeee about it. rip)

Maybe harry apologizes in their conversation about the romance novels. Like it blurts out.

eventually add in the previous consideration fic you were thinking of &quot

starting with bitter porno kimbo/viccy catfight bullshit

"no that's pathetic and he'd never go there." dynamic where kim cares quietly and jean is bitchy about Harry

then "no, he's dealt with harry so much already, I can't imagine." so it's all concern for him

and then that backslides into "how could I comfort him? how could he understand my need for comfort? "

we stan a mildly nonaccepted himself Jean so he's like "WAIT UH GAY THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS GUY TOO? FUCK FUCK FUCK"

gotta make it panic horny. it's a Dan Gat fic. how would kim look.... yknow......

since the only other guy who's been like that with him has been harry -> third wheel dynamic going to ->

horny ot3 dynamic. old men doting on him because it's his fantasy and he gets to be the pampered one goddamnit

end somehow

THIS IS THE EXACT DYNAMIC WE'RE GOING FOR Jean liked Harry premart and Harry was unbearably machismo repressed homophobic bullshitero man (I need to decide if he was stupid enough to be like AS LONG AS IM ON TOP IT ISNT GAYYYY or smth sex/intimacy related like that maybe he just kinda. ""comically"" hit on Jean or said suggestive shit to him but never fully acted on it) and then he comes back from Martinaise all loyal puppy dog or whatever for Kim and Jean is like "??? OKAY SO I GO THROUGH ALL THIS BULLSHIT AND HE TALKS SO BIG ABOUT LOVING MUSCLE DUDES AND NOW HES GONNA FUCK THIS GRANDPA?" but then he's like self-aware enough to know that's stupid.(Jean's problem is that he looks for wounds on Kim and not Harry, so he's all like "damn this bitch stole my mans when he's actually good...." meanwhile Harry is like Very Obviously Self Harming All The Time and not even really with Kim so often rip)

Harry wants to reach out and ask him about his thing with Kim because he has memories of Jean either being gay or being less homophobic or just having Gay Energy that he was an asshole about or whatever plus it just feels natural to work through shit with Jean but he stops himself because he's like "well DRINKING also felt natural that doesn't mean we should do it..."

maybe they get into it because Jean makes an offhand comment about "stop ogling kim" and harry is like (computer warmup noises) and jean just kinda forces him to spit it out RE: meme description

Harry's whole deal with avoiding Jean is "some things are unforgivable and I'm fairly sure I've done things bordering on that to you for so, so long, and now I don't even know what they were or who I was when I did them, to me that person is dead, and I know then that I can't apologize to you thoroughly, genuinely, and I don't want to insult you by presuming that I ever could, at this point. I don't want to insult you by assuming I can just go back to what we were before, to each other, without an apology or an actual understanding of what went wrong. I can't speak for certain about his mind-my mind- but at least in some part that guy killed himself because of what he did to you, and to everyone around him, sure, but mostly to you. And now I'm here, and it feels horrible to try and go against that and push myself into your life. It feels horrible to see I've done something to you worth killing myself over and then still insist on coming back to bother you beyond the grave"

And Jean's response is "you thought everything was bad enough to kill yourself over! And you're still alive, you're still him, and fuck, yes it'll take a long ass fucking time for me to ever really forgive you, but you were my best friend and you're still fucking alive- I see you every single day, Harry, do you know what that's like? To see your best fucking friend every single day and watch him flinch and try to act like he doesn't exist every single time he sees you? Fuck you and fuck what you wanted before, *I* never wanted you dead, and your little stunt here with pretending you're finally fine and then keeping everyone at an arm's distance is just another, slower grave you're digging" etc etc "if this is the upswing at last, I’d better be there for it.**”

Jean is a frat boy that you do not expect to be a frat boy. He unironically gets along with mack and chester. He's only just started to grow out of it through dealing with Harry's horrible downfall

sequel to geste drole des debutantes but it's just a 3 chapter PWP masturbation fic..... of Kim and Harry after the dinner and then SHOOKETH SURPRISE IT'S JEANGST YEARNING TIME!

Kim trans.... Good for him...

Stroker shit

He wants to fuck Harry basically

     ...slow tease? Or fast and desperate?

Dry kissing

Hair pulling...

Youre hard, and you're wet, and you can't help but think of that smile on his face as you left and you want him to taste it, to get on his knees for what he's done to you and swallow it all down, feels the soft brush of his beard on your thighs.

 Harry also trans... Good for them good for them...

Handkink shit

Wants kim to absolutely wreck his shit

... He's new at this

Slow....

Jean

Jeangst

Want to wreck harry's shit... Mouthfuck stuff maybe

Power bottoming?? Idk

Whoops my hardcore dom revenge fantasy has slipped into a getting bossed around by the guy I thought I disliked for taking away my partner UHH.... LETS NOT UNPACK THAT....

Some idiot makes like a homophobic stupid "ah the fucking lieutants off scissoring or something" comment and then jean is like "oh god what if that but sexual instead"

Gym shower...

Jean has a big dick too bad bitch

When harry du bois ruined his life, thinks satelitte-officer Jean Vicquemare- he might at least have had the decency not to also curse his dick. This shit was weekly and only getting worse, now that the shitkid didn't constantly smell like despair and carrion had scored a threesome with a bartender's manual.

[the-skeleton-speaks]

My own posts are tagged under #the skeleton speaks

Any art I post here will be under #the skeleton draws

#moots don't look is the tag I use for my more self indulgent or nsft posts/reblogs, as well as #hells something just woke up down here but I also tag with the regular nsft tag

My current hyperfix is bg3, posts about my tavs/durge are tagged with their names: Belir (Circle of Spores Druid tav) , Varun (Abjuration Wizard/Open Hand Monk tav), and Cyfrin (Wild Magic Barbarian durge)

If you send asks about my tavs/durge I will love you forever and ever<3

Instagram is skeleking_ I post arts there too :>

[puppygator]

I've only recently realized my plush-attraction but def a big part has been having plushes of my f/os. Just getting to physically touch and hold them... kiss their lovely faces. And it's a size difference thing too, bc I am Finally the larger one, which gives me such euphoria.

I tied G.uy up in his cincture and took some pics of his ass and pussy, and it feels so indecent but so hot. He really almost has a perfectly placed seam on both areas, and god if my tdick was a bit bigger I know it would feel so good to rub between his cheeks.

[puppygator]

No one pays attention/knows me so fuck it horny for character moment.

He makes me violent. I know he makes the stupidest fucking noises while getting fucked. I want to see the way his face screws up as he pretends to hate it. Go stupid and pathetic with a cock in his ass and my tongue down his throat. Spank him till he cries and then hold him down and suck him off.